Liminal
by Lirazel
Summary: Molly and Micah, before and after. futurefic


Liminal

Molly and Micah, before and after. (futurefic)

_Disclaimer: They don't belong to me._

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When they were younger, he flipped through the channels without using the remote while she kept "watch." With her talent, they always had enough time to scramble back to their rooms before an adult caught them up and watching television so late. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing with the uncomplicated danger of sneaking, giggles bubbling up from her stomach. She held them captive in her mouth, and they tasted like excitement. It felt like friendship, knowing that Micah was on the other side of the wall, feeling exactly the same way. With Micah, she felt like it was all right to be a kid for the first time in a long time. She felt safe—or as close as she could come anymore.

Now he uses his talent to turn technology into weapons against their enemies, and she tells him where to strike. Sometimes they barely have enough time to make an escape, and they've had too many close shaves for two so young. She lies in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, heart racing with knowledge of all the danger they're facing, and fear bubbles up from her stomach. She chokes it back down, and it tastes like fire. But it feels like home to hear Micah's breathing in the dark, to know he's lying beside her, feeling exactly the same way. With Micah, she feels like she has the strength to grow up. She feels safe—or as close as she can come these days.

When they were younger, they both went through hell. Their parents killed in nightmare ways when they had just reached the age where they could really understand death but still depended on their parents absolutely; then packed off to people who cared and loved but could never replace. They had to use their talents in ways neither one of them could really understand because adults told them to. Loved, yes, but talked down to: grown up enough to take the responsibilities of the world onto their shoulders because of their gifts, but too young for the adults to trust them enough to explain what was going on. Being demanded too much of but underestimated at the same time was the rust on the knife held to their throats. At least they could share the burden.

Now they still go through hell, but it's the every-single-day kind, not one or two crippling, defining moments. The members of the family they've spent years constructing to replace the ones they lost are being killed in nightmare ways, and they're beginning to realize that just because you get older doesn't mean you'll ever understand death. They have to use their talents in ways they're all too aware of, now because of their own choices. Valued, yes, but still talked down to more often than not: the "real" adults give them more and more responsibility, but still don't see them as really grown up enough to understand—it's easier for those adults to still think of Molly and Micah as children to be protected than to realize they've grown into heroes in their own right. Still being demanded too much of but underestimated at the same time just feels like the natural order of things and not an indignity. They can share the burden.

When they were younger, he rushed into rooms with a comic book and an eager smile. She rolled her eyes—girls learn that young—and pushed her hair out of her face to take in more of the world. He refused to play hide-and-seek with her and she always talked her way out of playing video games with him: all the promises of "no powers; it's cheating" were useless because the power was just so hard to resist.

Now his smile is less ready but it means more, and the comic books have been too painful to look at for years. She still rolls her eyes—girls never outgrow that—but it doesn't mean annoyance, and her hair is tied back so she can see to fight. All the world is hide-and-seek and neither one of them can talk their way out of battles with the bright explosions and loud colors of video games but none of the unreality: powers might be cheating, but they're the only way to stay alive, though they avoid using them during the rare moments of peace because those abilities are just a painful reminder.

When they were younger, the world still seemed, despite everything, full of hope. Surrounded by superheroes who fought for good, they believed there was no way the light would lose. The world was black and white, and so it was all right to plan, to think about the future: once the real bad guys were defeated, they would grow up to use their powers to do ordinary good guy things: catching bank robbers, stopping murderers, fixing people's computers and finding lost kittens. The specifics of the dreams shifted day by day, but sunlight and helping people and being together—those were constant.

Now they see the world for the shadowland it really is. Surrounded by ordinary people who just happen to be gifted or cursed with unbelievable abilities, they know how close the light has come to being extinguished once and for all. The world is shifting hues of grey, and so they can't plan past tomorrow, and the future isn't certain at all: defeating the bad guys is a big "if," and there's very little chance that they'll ever be able to use their talents to do anything but fight a war. The dream of just surviving is their constant now, and they don't let themselves think about sunlight and helping people—being together is all they can ask.

When they were younger, she slipped her hand into his to remind herself that he was still there and not going anywhere. They fell asleep leaning against each other in corners or on waiting room couches or in the back of the car as they were dragged along wherever the adults were going. Touching was all about reassurance, and she leaned her head against his shoulder like she would against Matt's, held his hand as she would Mohinder's. Comfort and innocence.

Now she doesn't need to hold his hand to know he's there—he's a part of her. She does it now to be as close to him as possible. Now, they fall asleep tangled up together whenever they can find a moment to rest. Touching is all about passion, and no one has ever touched her the way he has, and no one ever will. Fervor and ardor.

When they were younger, being together was a relief, like jumping into a swimming pool on an August day. No more pretending to be okay so that the adults don't worry, no more convincing themselves that their parents' deaths weren't their fault. No more trying to remember what it was like to be a normal kid—because they both knew they were never really normal.

Now being together is passion, like a fire that warms when it's controlled, consumes when it rages. Pretending to be okay is the only thing that _keeps_ them okay, and they've both faced the truth long ago that their parents died because of them. They try to construct an idea of what it would be like to be normal teenagers—because they both know they could never really be normal.

When they were younger, being together was being alive.

It still is.


End file.
